The Impossible Army
by Qur'a 'Morhek
Summary: The Time War forged many monstrosities, and cracks have begun to appear in the boundaries that contain it. Something is returning, following in paths others have trod, invading Tudor London - and only the last son of Gallifrey can stop it.
1. Chapter 1: Strange Dreams

The fire is dying down, dying embers casting dancing shadows on the sleeping man. His head is slumped forward, a piece of paper lies in his lap, a pen dangling from his hand. A pair of spectacles lies draped across the arm of the chair. He slumps to the side a little, head now resting against the headrest of his armchair, pale felt supporting his cheek.

He jerks awake, eyes flickering as they open to see the dancing shadows. His dreams… men and boys marching in rows; corpse people walking, cheeks drawn tight into rectus grins; a tide of blood in the Rhine… that unearthly noise…

It takes him a moment, as he blinks the sleep out of his eyes, to realise that the noise is still there. A horrible sort of grinding, as of two great celestial cogs gnashing together, getting louder and louder… and he sees the shadows dancing in their horrible patterns, orange giving way to an otherworldly blue glow.

He turns around.

He yells in alarm.

The box. The blue box. Was that in his dreams? No, and yet he feels some kind of dread emanating from it. Not from the box. He knows, without touching it, without opening the wood panelled doors, that there is something inside. And he knows that if he were to lay a hand upon it, he would die…

The doors open. A head sticks out.

"Right! Barcel-oh."

It is a… man. He feels instinctively that this is not the right word to use, but he can think of nothing else to describe him. The…man frowns behind round black glasses, his hair spiked up at the front. He wears formal attire, a brown pinstriped suit beneath a beige trench coat. At first glance, a respectable gentleman. But he is far too comfortable for the clothes he wears, and he looks around the darkened room not with apprehension, or even apology. The man looks irritated, and his frowns deeper as he sees the other man in the chair.

"Oh, hello," he says cautiously in perfect German… and yet he doesn't. The man in the armchair understands him, hears the words in his native German, but there is something about them…

"Hello?" he manages.

He blinks his eyes, hoping that this is a hallucination or a dream. Prison does strange things to a man, and the election campaigning must have taken his toll. He rubs his eyelids desperately with his fingers, still blinking, but is met with the same sight – the strange man frowning at him from his blue box.

"Sorry to interrupt your…whatever you were doing. Took a wrong turn at the chronological hub… Albuquerque always seems to have that effect on her, poor girl, never figured out why… anyway, if you could be so kind, where are we, and what year is it?"

It is the turn of the man in the chair to frown, but blissful acceptance dawns on him. Of course. This must be another dream. He smiles tentatively.

"It is the twenty sixth of January, nineteen hundred and thirty two. This is Dusseldorf."

The strange man seems to consider this, and then smiles a little, brightening up considerably. "Not too bad, I suppose… just a year off, and a few thousand miles away… actually, that reminds me, I must check up on Winston sometime-"

The _other_ voice, for all the other man's strangeness, was stranger still. The blue box couldn't have been more than a meter wide at its widest, and yet the voice seems to echo, as if reverberating around an enormous cavern. Which was, of course, impossible. The man in the chair puts it down to him still dreaming – impossible things often happen in dreams, inexplicable things.

"Have we arrived at our destination yet, Doctor?"

The voice is higher pitched, and has that same faint background noise to the words, as if what he was hear and what he was registering were quite different to what was being said. It also sounds proud, haughty, used to giving command. Intrigued, he craned his neck to try to peer around the doors.

The strange man grins madly, closing the doors further, rolling his eyes. "Always with the royal "we". Girls, eh?" He said conspiratorially. Turning his head back to… whatever was inside the box, he calls out, his own voice echoing slightly now, "Sorry! I think I crossed the chronohub at the wrong moment – not to worry, just a hop skip and a jump! Next stop, Worlds Fair Chicago!"

The other voice, and the man in the armchair was now certain that it was a woman, said, in tones that were unmistakably those of a leader who has been told something displeasing, "I begin to doubt your claims to knowing how to work this infernal device, Doctor."

The strange man shrugs, flashing him a conspiratorially grin, and then pulls his head back in the door, shutting it behind him. The man in the arm chair hauled himself to his feet, curious, reaching out a hand to brush the wooden panelling of the-

The door opens, the other man sticking his head back out. "Oh, and you'd probably be better off not telling anyone else about this. They'd just think you're mad… which you might be, but the preservation of the timeline and the causal nexus, wibbley wobbley timey wimey, et cetera."

The man from the arm chair snorts in derision. "I am quite resigned to the fact that this is another mad dream," he said, wearily. As if I didn't have enough of them. Go, strange man, be gone from my dreams!"

The man in the box raises a curious eyebrow. "Well, that works too. In fact, it's better all round if you just forget the whole thing ever took place."

The door shuts again, and the man from the chair stands still, bemused. He reaches out his arm again, but there is the noise again… the infernal noise… the noise that haunts his dreams, the ship that sails the stars carrying the lonely god, the ship that banished the darkness that returns…a device glows brighter and fades, glowing and fading, at the top of the box, lighting up the room… the box disappears…

Nothing. The man is alone, staring at an empty room in Dusseldorf on January 26th, 1932.

There is a knock on the door, the door enters, a guard steps in. He clicks his boots together and salutes, his brown cloth and black leather uniform reflecting the glowing embers strangely.

"Mein herr, I thought I heard you cry out!"

The man looks around himself again. The room is as empty as he expected, the shadows flickering and dancing still… he shakes his head.

"It was nothing. Just a bad dream. Return to your post."

The guard salutes again, barking out, "Ja wohl mein herr!"

The man stoops down to pick up the paper from the floor, fallen from his lap. The pen has clattered off somewhere else, perhaps onto the carpet. He feels around with his own boot, finds something small, long and round, and picks it up – his mind flashes: a blue glow, pointed at him as if it were a gun, pain – but no, that was just part of the dream. A memory of things that never happened.

He picks up his spectacles, unfolding the arms and pushing them up to rest on his nose, peering down at the paper, inspecting it critically – excellent. Nothing smudged, no tears, and he has finally decided that the speech will remain unaltered, satisfied with it. His speech is important – tomorrow is the day he delivers a speech to the Industry Club, part of the plan that will soon catapult him into the position of Chancellor. And after that…

Adolf Hitler drifts off to fitful sleep again, his spectacles drooping, his head resting against the headrest. And the Nightmare Child gluts, feasting on dreams of rage and war and fear and hatred…


	2. Chapter 2: Playthings

_August Seventeenth, 1545 – Tudor England, London_

Scenes of tranquillity rarely differ – a twilight sunset over a meadow, the meeting of ocean with the shore and the sound of waves lapping at the beach, or perhaps a night lit only by the full moon, light glistening on dew-covered grass and leaves.

The inhabitants of the city found tranquillity wherever they could get it – in this case, a darkened alleyway, strewn with muck and an unnameable liquid. The man huddles for warmth – it is a cold night, and the patchy tattered coat he stole is thick. He leans against the brick wall, ignoring the filth, and tries not to fall asleep.

To sleep is to die.

It is a scene that is repeated throughout time and across space – a country man making his way to the big city to find his fortune, only to end up destitute on the gang-controlled streets, making his living thieving and robbing. But there is no Dickens here to chronicle such destitution, no state efforts to create work for the jobless – only alms from the snobby rich and religious who can spare a few crowns. But tonight, the man's hat is firmly on his head, drawn about his ears and eyes for warmth – nobody walks the streets in the darkness anymore. And with good reason.

The only light was the glowing moon, but he felt the shadow is it fell across him. He lifted his hat to look up, peering at a man standing over him.

"Good morrow, sir," he said, cautiously. "Tis late to be walking the streets, is it not?"

The figure remained silent.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and now he could make out the figure clearer. It was man-shaped, dressed in tattered rags, more tattered even than his own, all in shades of black and grey that seemed to match his skin. A cap lay upon its head, stained with something. The man squinted up at the figure standing over him.

"How is it with thee?" he asked. "What o'clock ist?"

Still the figure remained silent, though now it swayed a little.

The man frowns to himself, a little worried. He isn't part of the City Watch – no Watchman would ever disguise himself so meanly – but the newcomer plainly had a purpose in darkening his place of sleep. He glared at the figure.

"Well? What say ye?"

_Play with us!_

The man sprung back, scooting along on his hands and knees to get away from the figure, who turned to face him as he fled. The man sprung to his feet, eyes wide and staring. A child! Where had the child's voice come from? Seemingly from the air itself – devilry, or witchcraft, or something equally blasphemous!

Now that he was standing, he could see that the figure was tall, and strong-looking for all his clothes looked like they belonged to the meanest pauper. His eyes hadn't deceived him – the figure's skin was pale, pale beyond all reason, his eyes glassy and unfocussed, sunken like his cheeks. Where the cloth was torn, he could see that the figure's body was torn in many places, a liquid slowly dripping from the figure's fingertips, the same liquid that stained the cap. He shuddered as he wondered what sight would meet him if the hat were removed.

"What meanst thou?" he demanded, still backing away. The light flickered as clouds passed across the face of the moon, and the shadows seemed to grow.

_I only meant to play. It's been so long since I had someone to play with – so long since I had such fun toys! Come, sir! Shall we play?_

The man backed away faster now, terrified for his life. Surely this man, built like an ox but with the voice of a child, must be some vision out of hell, come to take him to where the Devil made merry! He stumbled out into the street, fumbling in the darkness past a cart, and tripped on something on the ground.

The figure stood, eyes staring past and through him.

"Whence come ye?" he demanded, fear creeping into his voice.

_Far away. Beyond the Dead Frontier, further than the Medusa Cascade. My home was the Gates of Elysium. Gone now. All my lovely toys, burned, never to have existed. But no matter! I have new toys now, and what fine toys they are!_

The man tried to rise, but there was a pressure around his ankle. He kicked out, but it didn't relent – a hand grasped it, attached to the body that he had unknowingly tripped over. He yelled in alarm, and wrenched his foot from its grasp, trying to stand.

Something else gripped his forearm, claw like fingers gripping it tightly. Another grip, and another – arms reaching out from the cart. Horrified, he looked upon the sight of a dozen bodies all piled on top of each other, orderly. The corpse on the ground slowly rose, creaking as it did so. It was less… fresh than its predecessor, the one that had roused the man from attempted slumber. Its face was half-gone, worms and maggots still crawling across the rotten flesh. He screamed, and screamed, and kept screaming as the first body tottered slowly, deliberately towards him.

_Such wonderful toys! I shall enjoy these new games very much!_


	3. Chapter 3: Reminisces

This is London, 60 AD. The Iceni have risen up against Roman occupation, marching across the country, burning and slaughtering as they vent their fury against Rome and all its influences – merchants, peasants, lords and ladies, clergy men, all put to the sword for their foreign ways. Distracted by trouble on the other side of the country, the Roman legions don't know about their rampage until it's too late. And in that time, the Celtic warriors of Boudica had burnt down Camulodunum, Londinium and Verulamium, which will someday be known as Colchester, London and St. Albans.

And through it all stands the man in the blue box.

There are no legends that tell of the lonely god with his blue box, bigger on the inside than it is outside. The few tribesmen who investigate find nothing but an eerie note carried by the breeze, as of some celestial grindstone. No books record his coming and going; of how he watched as London burned, how he watched as the legions returned and gave battle and routed their enemy; of how he watched as Boudica took her own life rather than submit to humiliation by Roman imprisonment; or how he watched, with a small smile on his face, as the British rebuilt in the wake of the slaughter, bigger and better than before, restoring the towns, the forts, the villas.

Someday Roman Britain will come to an end, swept away by the Anglo-Saxons. And in their heyday, the Anglo-Saxons too shall be torn down by the Normans. But these people, these ordinary people triumphing in the face of adversity, will go on and on, up and out into the stars. Today, their future is bright and shining.

_It is cold. So cold, after the time of heat, infinite blazing heat, the same moment repeating in an infinite loop. The feel of an eternal fire consuming everything, only to consume it again, and again and again and again…_

* * *

><p><em>This world is cold, but it has warmth.<em>

_There are creatures on this planet. Ridiculous creatures. Giant animals that use their noses to hold things. Small things that use tails like hands. Things that live beneath the waters of the world, never seeing daylight, never witnessed, but possessing a kind of beauty in themselves. So many wonders and marvels and miracles happening every day._

_And perhaps the greatest of them is boredom._

_Imagination. Creation. Inspiration. All traits, useful traits, and all will be made full use of in time. But It looks with almost a sense of wonder upon this world and its marvels, and the greatest marvel of them all is that the beings that scurry across its surface never stop, never _really_ look around then, never appreciate the beauty that surrounds them every day. The way the light reflects off the water. The way a branch curves, splitting into twigs tipped by leaves. The way a body can lie at an angle that in life would be called unnatural, its skin turning pale as the blood stopped circulating, the muscles tensing as rigour set in, making it stiff._

_It shall enjoy burning all of these wonders, as it was burned. It shall delight in them._

_Such marvellous new toys! Never played with, never broken. And, as all parents know, a child will always break their toys._

* * *

><p>This is Minorca. Not the island, the planet. This is the middle of the twenty sixth century. This is the heyday of the First Great and Bountiful Human Empire.<p>

This is the day that the planet falls.

The empire doesn't call itself that. Not yet. Only in hindsight, after its fall five hundred years later, and the later rise of the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire, does it earn its name. In the time most are familiar with, the time that should have happened, the Empire was at war with a race known as the Draconians. Minorca should have fallen to them, become a rallying cry for thousands to renew the war effort, before an unexpected peace. But much has changed. Time is in flux. The Draconians have yet to met humanity. The Human Empire, besides not being called that, is a less harsh place.

But while most of time is in flux, there are still some fixed moments.

Minorca is meant to fall. But not, this time, to the Draconians.

Another enemy, another war, another act of senseless violence that sparks war across hundreds of worlds. And this enemy is voracious, it is powerful, and it is utterly, sincerely convinced that humanity deserves to die. And to that end, it brings its powerful machines of destruction to bear on Minorca, one of the last frontline fortress worlds of humanity. Next stop, Earth.

And then the blue box arrives.

This is not first century Britain. There are legends now, of a warrior who travels in a box that defies the laws of the universe itself. Of a man who has sent empires running, again and again, and who ended the war that threatened to devour the universe by sacrificing his own race. The Lonely God, the Oncoming Storm. There are legends, and this new enemy know them. They fear them.

They run, howling back into the darkness of space. They _flee_.

Minorca survives.

The Human Empire survives too, and goes on for another five centuries in an age of peace. Peace for itself. For those who stand in its way, there is only conquest and subjugation. Humanity changes. Now it is humanity on the offensive against its old enemies, humanity cracking worlds open in retribution, slaughtering millions who had no hand in the previous destruction. It is humanity who has become the stuff of nightmares, coming from the darkness of space to rain ruin upon those who did them wrong so long ago.

It is time. The blue box appears again.

The First Human Empire falls in fire and ruin. Minorca shatters. Humanity scatters across a million stars, forced to rebuild again, bigger, better, and less fanatical.

The box vanishes.

* * *

><p>The halls of Whitehall Palace were large, and quite extravagant. They should be, Will mused. Being owned by Queen Elizabeth of England, if there were too many that were finer, the owner found themselves risking separation of their head from their body, or worse still, being shunned by high society. Will found that to be an odd thought about the aristocracy, but not an correct one – he made a mental note of the idea, wondering if he could fashion a story out of it, or maybe work it into one he already had planned.<p>

Will made a lot of mental notes. They came in handy. He rarely forgot them – they were far too interesting to forget, after all – and thoughts he had from observation were often the best ideas.

Right now, the loudest thought in his head was "who is this officious twerp?" The word twerp will not come into use until after 1874, two hundred and seventy five years later, but the thought nevertheless persists – not helped by the trim and tidy beard, or the ruff worn even outside of fashionable hours.

The man sitting in the comfortable – but not, he noticed, too comfortable, lest a guest overstay his welcome – chair was, by the standards of the day, handsome. A neat beard, trimmed but not too manicured, just rugged enough to be masculine. Hair thinning at the temples. Someday he will be painted with a bulbous forehead, a renaissance symbol representing great intellect. Historians will debate whether he really was balding or not. This man doesn't know any of that. His clothes are well tailored, but practical, and a cloak hangs over his shoulders to keep the wind off him.

This may be the most important man in England.

Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury, coughed as he enters the room, drawing his attention grudgingly. He merely raises a curious eyebrow as he takes a seat opposite him, reading through some notes in his hand, giving him a momentary and uninterested glance. "Her majesty sends you tidings of good health, master…"

"Shakespeare. William Shakespeare." This really annoyed him – it was hardly the first time they had met, or even in the first dozen – and yet he always insisted on pretending that they did not know each other, had never met, and were unlikely to ever know each other at all.

"Ah yes, Master Shakespeare. I apologise, but her majesty is unable to attend to your appointment. Affairs of state occupy her at present."

Will smiled. "I heard. Does Essex make much sport in Ireland?"

The situation in Ireland was no dramatic secret, but Cecil's eyes darted to the doors and windows as though spies leaned with ears pressed against the woodwork. The Irish were rebelling, and the English had sent a massive army, the biggest ever sent to the troublesome provinces, to put it down. By all rights, they had enough men to have succeeded, or to have brought the rebel leaders to negotiate – and instead, Robert Devereaux, second Earl of Essex, had squandered his army in skirmishes in irrelevant places and, worse, made a truce, humiliating the English. Rumours held that he was returning to London, to deliver their terms personally to the Queen – such a thought was shocking, appalling, and knowing the reputation of the Earl of Essex, probably entirely true.

Cecil frowned disapprovingly. "The Earl of Essex serves his queen, sir, of whom we are all subjects. The Irish occasionally need to be reminded of this."

Will kept smiling. "So she hasn't just sent him to Ireland to get him out from under foot?"

Cecil stood, face reddening. "You forget your place!"

Will chuckled to himself. "Oh, come off it, Cecil. Must we always keep up the pretence? The queen knows full well what I think of you, and she cares as little as I do. She has my eternal loyalty and fealty – I retain the right to judge the men foolish enough to think to woo her."

Cecil waved a quavering finger at him "To speak ill of her majesty is to utter treason!"

Will shrugged, changing the subject. "How did she like her commission?"

"We found it most amusing, master Shakespeare!"

Cecil was already standing, but if it was possible he stood straighter still, staring with horrified surprise as a woman passed gracefully into the room.

Nobody would call her old, even if they could. Objectively, Will knew that the Queen must be sixty six year old, and in some ways she looked it. Her eyes – they were not the eyes of the young, smooth and unwrinkled. Six decades had taken their toll. But at the same time, her skin was painted pale as of youth, and unwrinkled (a kindness – _mostly_ unwrinkled), and even her figure remained as waspish as ever. She seemed to Will both old and young – as though holding back the wear of time. Elizabeth the First was called the Virgin Queen for a reason.

William stood, bowing deeply. The Queen returned the motion with a subtle, uninterested nod.

Cecil pointed an accusatory finger as Will. "My lady! He-"

She waved a hand dismissively. "You are dismissed, Cecil. We have private business with the young man."

Cecil gaped, evidently thinking about imploring her majesty to reconsider – and realised the futility of such a request. He backed out of the room, bowing low as he said, "As you wish, my Queen."

A wry smile tugged the corner of her lips. "We _are_ your Queen, Cecil. Do not forget this."

She turned to Will, who tried to say, "My lady-"

She placed a finger to her lips, still looking at the thick oak doors. "Hush. Walls have ears, and jealous ones. Come, you shall walk with us in the gardens. It is a fine day today. Admire the topiary."

A strange request. A well-known London-based Warwickshire-born playwright, invited by her majesty the Queen of England to take a casual stroll with her within the palace gardens at Whitehall Palace, the centre of England's power. Such an occurrence would normally cause outrageous scandal – since it was the Queen, however, the majority would probably accept it as a simple conversation with a playwright over a play to be commissioned. The usual cover. Admittedly, her dealings were rarely so direct as this, and usually carried out through intermediaries, but with luck nobody would suspect.

Luck. Hah. Lady Luck was a trickster, always had been and always would be.

He waited until the two of them were safely in the garden, her soldiers taking up positions out of earshot to prevent trespassers. To his surprise, he found himself rushing to keep up with her – age may have worn itself into her, but it was hid well, and she seemed to glide across the carefully trimmed grass. The garden itself was still being worked on, the landscape being shifted painstakingly by workers, skilled gardeners planting and tending trees that would reach up to the sky in a few years time, if all went well. But Shakespeare's craft was words, not plants – besides their pleasing colours and forms, they were just a background.

"My lady, the topiary is irrelevant. Your message was clear, and urgent. I thought-"

The Queen raised an eyebrow. "You thought that I had further need of you, Master Shakespeare?" He nodded. "Your thoughts are prudent, if presumptuous. We have need of your services once again."

He winced at recent memory. "After the Japan debacle, I thought-"

A thin smile passed across the Queens lips. "The Shogun's emissaries have written to us, demanding an apology. I have in turn sent a carrack fleet to bombard his ports until he withdraw his demand. The fact that we wish to improve our trade rights in the region is a minor concern."

"In fairness to myself, lady, the ninja did attack me first."

"Only after you set fire to their temple, if reports are to be believed. And stole their sacred jade totem."

He shrugged, embarrassed. "Well, it…looked like a gift your majesty would much amusement in."

This actually drew a short laugh. "You were correct, master Shakespeare, insofar as the tale behind it is worth more than the trinket itself." The laugh seemed to die on her lips, however, giving way to a look of grim resolution. "You were also correct in that we require your services once again."

"My lady, I stand ready to serve at your pleasure."

"What we command you gives us no pleasure at all. But it is a command that must be given nonetheless. We were present yesterday at your theatre. The man who ran with his Moorish companion. Do you know who he is?"

How could he forget?

He had first met the Queen after the performance of his most popular play to date, _Love's Labour's Won_, which had dazzled the audiences of London. Unfortunately, this hadn't been his doing at all – some otherworldly creatures that looked like wizened hags and used the power of words had manipulated him into writing the play, hoping to use it to release the rest of their kind on an unsuspecting world. It had been William Shakespeare who had stood up on the stage to face them down, hurling words at them with the strength of hammer blows, sending them back from whence they came.

And it had been the Doctor who had helped him to do that.

The Doctor had just burst in on a "brainstorming" session, but soon his presence had felt as natural as his own. He had some odd kind of effect on people like that – you trusted the Doctor almost immediately, albeit sometimes grudgingly, and he gave you good reason to trust him. The Doctor had shown him impossible things, such impossible things…witches whose power lay in words, madmen who clung desperately to sanity, a glimpse of other worlds, strange worlds, wonderful worlds…

And inspiration had struck.

"I…well, I have some…ideas."

The Queen glowered suspiciously. "Then these ideas are insufficient. We require more of you."

"You wish me to find out more of him?"

The Queen finally halted on the garden lawn, Shakespeare stopping behind her as she turned to face him. "We wish you to find him, and to bring him to me in all haste. We have business that remains unfinished to discuss and he has inflicted wounds upon our self that have yet to heal. For this he must be punished."

He frowned. "But your majesty must know that this man is…elusive."

She raised an eyebrow. "We know this quite well. Take heart. You go with the blessings of your queen. God will smile upon your charge, and speed you to your target."

Well, this was a dismissal as final as any court in the land. "I…thank you, my queen." And still, he couldn't resist the impulse that gripped him – if he could, then he wouldn't be Will Shakespeare anymore. "Incidentally…how did your majesty find your commission?"

She smiled again. "You wish us to be frank? We found it to be most amusing, as we said. The play itself was bawdy and tawdry, and the characters shallow, but it served its purpose well. Especially the use of dear Falstaff."

He shifted nervously, regretting prolonging the conversation longer. "Using a character I had killed two hundred years earlier was an…odd request, my lady."

"You think such a thing impossible, Master Shakespeare?" she asked enigmatically. "Then you have many things yet to see."

He shrugged. "It's just that I had many questions about it. People thought it an odd choice, amusingly so, but it nevertheless attracted attention."

She smiled, more mysteriously this time. "Then it has had the effect we intended."

An odd comment. Their meeting had been a secret one, using mutual cover stories – she had interrupted a meeting with her privy council on the raid of Cadiz, under the guise of exhaustion – she had been awake for many sleepless days, worried. And yet she had still found time to pull a wandering minstrel offering his services to the court aside, and briefing him that she required the creation of a play, requesting the use of Falstaff.

He had used the character in an earlier play – _Henry IV_. He had been popular, and he had certainly enjoyed writing for the part, but he had died in the sequel, _Henry V_. The request for his resurrection had been passed off before as indulgence – she had insisted he had been her favourite character, and he had seen her laugh much during the presentation of both parts of Henry IV that she had attended. Now, however, Will wondered if there were ulterior motives at play.

He sighed. "I must confess, I was working in a rush. If I had more time-"

"Time has ever been our foe, Master Shakespeare," The Queen said, now stern. "Life is a constant battle with it, one we must inevitably lose – but victory or defeat is irrelevant in this battle. It is the fighting of it that matters."

Will hesitated before he asked his next question. This _was_ the _Queen of England_ after all. "If I may be so bold, your majesty, what sins has this man…the Doctor…committed to your person that must be redressed?"

"Wounds that cannot be seen. God keep you in good health until next we meet."

A dismissal. Like so many before now. He bowed low as he backed away, leaving the Queen in her garden, surrounded by her guards. He was well away from the palace when she uttered her next words, low, aloud only for her own benefit.

"God may forgive him, but I never can."

* * *

><p>This is a year that has no name. None live yet to give it one. Someday, it will be given the hypothetical name "65 million BC," but there are no creatures to call it such yet.<p>

This is the man with the blue box, standing on a hill in what will someday be called North America, watching patiently as he waits.

If there were someone there to see the man, they might wonder why his face is filled with a sadness that seems infinite. The day is beautiful. The lush forests stretch out in all directions, populated by large animals that graze on ferns and low-lying branches, preyed on by predators that will someday fill nightmares. But these creatures are far off, and they are not his concern.

He stares upward, at the sky.

Somewhere, up there, is an object. History textbooks will record it as an asteroid, a very large one. The man knows that it is not – it is a spaceship, and right now an old friend is struggling against all odds, against time itself, to stop it from impacting. But this too is a fixed point in time. The ship is destined to crash, slamming down into the peninsula before the blue box and its owner, smashing coasts with tidal waves, sending a wave of fire out and up into the air, a plume of dust and ash that will block out the sun, dooming countless species to extinction.

It is not the end of life. Some will struggle on. The mammals, for so long forced to live in the shadow of the dinosaurs, will have their chance, and will someday give rise to a species of ape that figures out that hands can hold more than just roots and fruit. The dinosaurs, magnificent as they are, are doomed. But that is not why a single tear slides down the man's face.

There's a deafening boom, as the ship hits the upper atmosphere. A fireball streaks across the sky, leaving a trail of smoke and fire in its wake. There is a flash a thousand times brighter than the sun as it hits the future Yucatan peninsula. The man doesn't blink.

"Goodbye Adric."

The man enters his blue box, closing the door behind him with a note of solemnity. An observer might ask how he plans to escape the wave of fire rapidly advancing upon him. But there is no-one there, no one besides the man in the box, and soon there isn't a box either as it fades away, accompanied by a sound like celestial gears grinding together.

The blue box vanished. And history continues.

The chamber rattles and shakes, the central pillar glows as energy passes through it and an otherworldly sound fills the room, and the man dances around it like he has for centuries.

An observer would think it random at first – a hand slams down on a button here, pulls back on a lever there, twists knobs and pushes sliders as he circles the control panel. But a pattern would emerge – if they had decades to watch it, years to study it, and months to analyse it.

It was never the same pattern, either. Any machine navigating through the timestream would take years to calculate a single trip, even a relatively short one – would need to detect and isolate a single temporal thread in the infinite timestream, follow it forwards or backwards, ignoring where it branches off or crosses other threads, the people it meets, the places it goes, the things that happen to it. And an observer would notice, with no small amount of alarm, that the man seemed to do this off the top of his head, referring only to a few scattered post-it notes hastily scribbled in an eccentric but elegant circular language and slapped haphazardly on control panels or monitors. Occasionally, he teetered as the room wobbled or pitched, and he hurriedly made adjustments and corrections.

"Alright," he said aloud to himself, "now we just follow the thread back to its last branching, isolate it from the interconnections, and…"

The sound was replaced with a harsher one, a kind of ethereal grinding like a celestial cog had slipped, and the rattling stopped.

"Hah! Here we are!"

The man steps back from the console as his ship, his TARDIS, settles into its landing zone. He's tall, thinner than he had a right to be, and sported sideburns and spiky hair. Over his long and lanky frame he wore a blue pinstripe suit, and over that went a long brown trenchcoat. Occasionally, he wore the glasses folded up in its pocket. In another pocket, one closer to the reach of his hand, a sonic screwdriver was nestled in the expansive fabric.

This man is called the Doctor. And he is about to get a very nasty shock.

He claps his hands together, rubbing them excitedly. "I've always wanted to come here. Sand, surf, sun, football, and the metre bar. Wonderful man, Pierre Mechain. Bit of a dreamer. I think he fancied me. It couldn't last."

The machine seems to hum, either in response to him or simply out of contentment. An observer might wonder if he was talking aloud to himself, not always the sign of madness people think it is, or whether he talks to the machine that surrounds him and that he dances around. And then they might not wonder if the machine is answering back in subtle, sometimes imperceptible ways. The machine is vast, and undeniably mechanical, but it is also more than a computer – it is alive, sentient (mostly), and imperceptibly fond of its occupant.

The Doctor swung the door open, a huge smile plastered upon his face. "Here we are, then. Barcelona-"

Mud splashed up from a cart as it passed him, splattering against the side of the TARDIS, and nearly soaking the Doctor head-to-foot, stopped only as he swiftly shut the doors. He opened them again.

"What?"

The sight that met him was not the one he had expected. Well, it wasn't as if it didn't keep happening to him – he just wished it wouldn't happen so often.

The street outside was…well, occupied was the only real word for it. Filled with rubbish, filled with carts drawn by horses and oxen, filled with people shuffling past one another and weaving between the carts, and filled with filth, which they carefully avoided with an acceptance that seemed well-rehearsed. Live with something long enough, and anything can seem normal.

He stepped out, locking the TARDIS door behind him. It wasn't exactly Barcelona, but…medieval architecture, Tudor style, possibly Elizabethan…definitely England, judging from the accents and fashion…London? Hardly an exotic city in renaissance Spain

"Ah well. Only a few hundred miles off. No harm done. Just a hop, skip and a jump across the Channel and-"

And that was when the screaming started.


	4. Chapter 4: Burning Smoke

How does one find the Doctor? Some try to trace the levels of background chronon radiation emitted by his TARDIS. But the thing about a time machine is that it can appear to weeks before or after the effects of its arrival manifest, playing merry hell on the sensors of determined time traveller seekers. Others use known information to deduce what little they can about his likely movements and actions. Again, the Doctor is still a conundrum – one moment he may mercifully offer to transplant a desperate invader to a far-off but comfortable world to start again, the next he will lay entire fleets to waste in his wrath. There are very good reasons why many of the universe's most feared races call him the Oncoming Storm.

Mostly, the best way to find the Doctor is to follow the screams.

The Doctor ran, coat billowing out behind him and sonic screwdriver in hand, as he followed the sound of people, pushing through the throng of panicked citizens running panicked in the other way. The crush of people was overwhelming, or it would have been if they hadn't parted before what was evidently a mad foreigner. He had to be – such strange dress, the odd object he held in his hands, and the fact that he was heading _towards_…it. And that look in his eyes…

There was still a small mob at the scene when he arrived, outside a tavern. A few of them were a little unsteady on their feet, drunks too inebriated to realise the danger. A couple of them were women, probably barmaids, and as the Doctor neared the place he could see what they were standing around – a pair of bodies. Smoke had started to rise out of the thatched roof.

"Stand back!" he shouted, pointing his sonic screwdriver at the two. "All of you, stand back! I'm the Doctor."

One of them muttered, "A physician? 'Tis too late for them. Better to fetch an undertaker."

"No, I said _the_ Doctor. Why does nobody catch that?"

He activated his sonic screwdriver, running the sonic sensor field over the two bodies – a young woman and an older man, both dragged out of the building. Not dead, yet. But on their way. The Doctor plunged his hand into a coat pocket, pulling out a device that looked like a doctor's stethoscope. In fact, it was a stethoscope, but to the people who were now looking at him with a little more than concern, it might as well have been an alien assault rifle.

He knelt, pressing the stethoscope to the man's chest – heartbeat high, but irregular. Flabby, probably pretty well off. Cholesterol – _very_ well off. What was he doing in a lower-class pub? He checked the girl, carefully avoiding the chest area – humans had their funny little ways – and noted that, despite the dress, she too was far from the usual clientele. Skin too clean. Eyes clear. Teeth…well, okay, still not brilliant, but better than average.

"They're coated in void matter and chronon radiation, both of them. That's impossible! Who are they?"

A few people looked at each other, evidently confused why he should care. Others looked at the pub as more smoke continued to billow out of it. One of the drunk men shrugged.

"Don't know. They ain't regulars, I give ye that."

"Our Jamie's still in there!" sobbed one of the older women, supported by another, probably a daughter.

That name. There had been a Jamie, so very long ago for the Doctor, but still to come for this world and these people. He smiled ruefully to himself, remembering the Scottish man in a kilt who had travelled with him all those centuries ago. Well, _relative_ centuries.

The Doctor put the stethoscope away, frowning to himself. "Okay. Burning pub, odd clients, wrong time zone, and all this as I step out the door. Bit of a coincidence. Never believed in coincidence. Right!"

He stood abruptly, wielding his screwdriver like a weapon. There were gasps – it had been sudden, and they were mostly drunk of terrified. He turned to them, face serious.

"You two," he said pointing to a pair of young but strong-looking ladies, "drag them a bit further down the street. If this place catches fire, I don't want them too close. You," he pointed at a young girl, "fetch the City Watch. Form a bucket chain. Are we near the river? Never mind, water molecules about five minutes that-a-way. And you," he said, turning finally to the drunk pub patrons, "stay out of my way. In fact, clear off home. What'll your wives think?"

"Why?" asked one of the girls. "What are you going to do?"

The Doctor flashed a confident grin. "Me? I'm going in!"

* * *

><p>Shakespeare stared at the smoke rising from nearby. This had to be a coincidence – a major fire, near the palace, on the same day the Queen tasked him with finding an elusive time traveller? Definitely a coincidence.<p>

Will never believed in coincidences.

He set off at a run.

* * *

><p>The fire was…hot. Well, it sounded a bit anticlimactic when you put it like that, but watching a fire and being <em>near<em> one are two very different things. Right now, the Doctor was cursing his tendency toward impulsive but grand gestures. The smoke wasn't as thick as he had expected it to be, but it was hardly comfortable.

"Jamie? Jamie, where are you?" he called out. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, using it to filter some of the smoke from his breathing – even Time Lords could choke to death. How embarrassing would that be? Last of the Time Lords, burnt to death in a pub fire in Tudor London?

There was a shout, followed by coughing. The Doctor squinted through the smoke, making out the form of a child. He hurried over, tripping over furniture that had been knocked aside in the patrons' desperate hurry to get out. The Doctor swore to himself, reached into his pockets yet again, pulling out a pair of 3D glass that he put on. Despite all appearances, he seemed to navigate clearer as he stood up and made his way to the child.

It was _a_ Jamie – a girl. Well, nothing wrong with that. He'd known a Jamie who wore a skirt before – well, a kilt – a long time ago. He knelt down, running the sonic screwdriver over her as he scanned her for injury. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

"You're Jamie?"

The girl shook her head. "Martha"

"Good name, Martha. Knew a Martha once. Brilliant girl. I was hopeless. I'm the Doctor, by the way. Where's Jamie?"

"Falstaff!"

The Doctor frowned. "Come again?"

"Falstaff! I need Falstaff!"

"Who's Falstaff? A cat? A dog? A doll?"

"My brother!"

"Ah. Right. Well then, I'll find Jamie and Falstaff, and you run for your life!" he handed her the screwdriver. "Hold this in front of you, keep _this_ button pressed. Sonic waves should displace the smoke in front of you. And hang around, 'cause I'll want that back!"

The girl ran, doing as she had been told. The Doctor squinted – stairs. Great. Another level to search. And from the amount of smoke now filling the air, it was probably the one the fire had started in. And yet he couldn't see any flames. He could feel the heat, but no orange glow…

"Allons-y!"

* * *

><p>The crowd was even smaller now. Smoke continued to billow out of the pub, but the flames were taking longer to erupt than anyone had thought. In Tudor London, wood and thatch were the only real building materials most could afford. And the funny thing about wood and dry straw is that they burn extremely easily.<p>

There were, however, still some stragglers – the relatives of Jamie still stood outside, worried, waiting for the strange man. A child had stumbled out, coughing, now wrapped in a warm blanket by a bystander. A single drunk, possibly Jamie's father, swayed uncertainly, a puzzled look on his face as though he had forgotten something or someone important.

The small crowd was distracted momentarily by the arrival of a man, very smartly dressed with a ruff around his neck, panting a little as he caught his breath.

"What happened here?" he gasped.

"Fire," said one man, as though that was all there was to it.

Will rolled his eyes. "I can see that, thank you. I meant, why is it on fire?"

The man frowned. "There was a…well, it was…it just caught fire, didn't it?"

Will looked around at the rest of the small gathering outside the building with smoke pouring out of it but no flames. They looked equally confused, as if trying to remember something from long ago and failing.

"Does no-one remember?"

The first man frowned. "Funny, the other bloke didn't even ask."

Ah. He'd been right. "He does that. Tall, thin, strange clothes? Pointing something?"

"Yeah, that's him! How did you-"

"Worry not. Where did he go?"

"The D-Doctor…"

The little girl stirred, a corner of the blanket falling away, and Will stared. Clutched in her hand tightly was a long, thin, metal object that he knew was not of this time or this world. He knelt down, still looking at the sonic screwdriver.

"Did he give you this?" he asked. "I'm a friend of the Doctor. Did he give you this?"

The girl nodded, still shaken. Will held out an open hand. "I'll give it back to him. I promise."

The girl hesitated, looking troubled, but nodded and handed over the small object.

Will stood, looking at the strange device, thoroughly alien to him in more ways than even he knew. "Where did he go?"

"Inside! Went to pull our Jamie out, didn't he?"

"I don't know. Did he?" Will was growing impatient. "I don't have time for this."

The crowd watched as a second man entered a burning building. This day was full of impossible things – pubs that simply burst into flame, strange men who rushed to meet certain death with grim determination and, in the case of the first man, outright glee. And monsters not of this world.

Slowly, it dawned on a few of them that this last piece of information was _probably _something the two men should have been told _before_ going in.

* * *

><p>The smoke was a little thicker now, and even with his impossible glassed the Doctor had to squint. He reached into one of his many pickets, pulling out a handkerchief to keep over his mouth as he inhaled – even Time Lords could choke.<p>

"Jamie? Falstaff? Anyone?"

The Doctor bounded up the stairs, his long legs taking them in their stride, and he skidded to a halt at the top of them, clutching the banister. Two bodies lay curled in the corner of the room. He sighed in relief as he saw one of the children stir, then the other, coughing and looking around in alarm.

And then his eyes registered the _other_ occupant of the room.

The phrase "not of this Earth" is applied far too loosely, and is almost always entirely wrong. In this case, however, it was perfectly right. The _thing_ was about two meters long from head to tail, or it would have been if it had a head. Instead, what looked like a neck terminated in a misshapen lump from which a few fleshy tendrils sprouted. Stubby but thick wings were hung on its back, and its midsection sported four sets of clawed arms. The entire creature was resting on powerful legs that terminated in sharply curved talons, and a tail resting behind it, gently twitching.

It was currently standing on the top of a table, balanced precariously, "neck" stretched up to thrust its "head" into the glowing red fire that was burning through the nearest beam of wood. And only that beam.

The nonexistent head turned nonexistent eyes to the all-too-real man.

"Oh. Hello! Sorry about this, just have to get the kids to safety. Kids, you know how it is. I'll just get them out, and-"

The wings stretched out, rumbled with a sound like a jet engine, and the Doctor threw himself back as the creature hurled itself at him, claws and talons outstretched and grabbing at where he had been, crashing through the wood panelling. He planted its claws on the walls as it tried to extract itself, letting out an unearthly shriek.

The Doctor teetered on the top step, felt himself begin to fall-

Hands caught him. He sighed in relief, and turned to face-

"Doctor?"

"Will?" he asked incredulously. "Will Shakespeare?"

Will grinned. "Is it you? You were gone so suddenly, I thought-"

"It's me, in the flesh, older and wiser. Well, I say wiser… and older…"

"To me, fair friend, you never can look old."

"Thank you! Now, before I topple down the stairs and regenerate a bit early, RUN!"

Will and the Doctor ducked beneath the flailing tail and talons into the room as the creature fell back, caught itself in mid air, and shrieked again. The two kids screamed, scooting back on all fours to the far wall, away from the creature. It hovered, looking without eyes between Will and the Doctor, looking like it was coiling itself up like a spring for another attack.

"By Convention Fifteen of the Shadow Proclamation, I have the right to parley with my attacker. Who are you? What do you want?"

The creature seemed to pause, as though surprised. There was a buzzing noise, if noise was the right word. The creature spoke a harsh, grating language, but behind the offensive noise was a high note of clarity, almost of song. A song that arrived directly into the mind, translating the thoroughly alien words into understandable text.

The Doctor grimaced. "Okay, right. Sorry, should have recognised you. Smoke inhalation must be going to my head."

"Doctor, what does it say?"

"It's introducing itself. Catharg-Jocoshtu-Fezhezh. Nice to meet you. Can I call you Catharg for short?"

Another buzzed-song.

"Right. Now that we've got introductions out of the way, what do think you're doing here? This is a Level Two developing planet still in its pre-industrial stages! The Shadow Proclamation isn't going to like this at all!"

Will frowned. The buzzing was still there, as were the words, but there was…meaning where there had been none before. The Doctor simply listened, absent-mindedly wiping his 3D glasses of the soot.

{We are not invading. We break no law.}

"Well _obviously_ it's not an invasion. And believe me, I'd know if it was. But aggressive infiltrations are still covered by the conventions, article two, subsection four hundred and seven.

{We wish no harm to this planet.}

"Didn't look like that to me, you nearly took my head off!"

{We acted in self-defence.}

"Defending against what? I'm not even carrying my sonic screwdriver! Do I _look_ armed?"

{We did not know.}

"Okay, so there was a mix-up. That's okay. But what's _not_ is you being here at all. You're interfering with the future of this planet, completely mucking up history! This pub was meant to be bombed by Hitler in 1941, not burned down in 1599!

{Was it important?}

"Of course it's important! Ripple effects and whatnot! A butterfly flaps its wings in China, suddenly America vanishes in a puff of smoke. This pub was supposed to be the meeting place of a small group of authors, who now have to go somewhere else to bring humanity some of the greatest novels ever written. What kind of effect is that going to have? How did you even get here? You have no ship, no temporal displacer, nothing or the TARDIS would have detected it!"

{We fell through the cracks in time. We fell through eternity and darkness and starved. We hungered. And now we feed.}

"Doctor," asked Will, "When it says feed, does it mean-"

"Oh no. Mi-go feed on energy, and what's a fire but a great big source of thermal energy? Which explains why there's so much smoke but no fire."

"You mean…they _eat fire_?"

"Of course. Basic energy absorption. You get it from eating and drinking. They just cut out the middle man. Literally. Listen, I'm sorry you're trapped here, I really am. But you're an alien in a time and a place that is vitally important to human history."

{We cannot go back}

"I have a ship. I can take you back."

{We cannot go back}

"Why? What's wrong?"

{Our home was consumed by the fires of the end of the universe. The cracks widened and our world was consumed.}

"I can find you another world, one where you can begin again."

{We tire of running. We tire of starving. This world is rich in energy, this city dry and brittle. We must feed. We shall feed.}

The Doctor's face hardened. "Don't make me do this. Don't make me stop you."

{What can you do little man?}

"THIS! Will, do it now!"

Will held up the long, silvery object the child had given him, finger fumbling for the button where he had seen the Doctor press a thumb onto it so long ago, and was rewarded with a deafening sonic pulse. The Mi-go keened in pain, thrashing in the air and dropping as its wings clamped over what might have been ears.

"Up you get kids!" the Doctor said, pulling the children, two boys, to their feet. He lifted one in his arms, handing him to a nonplussed Will, and carried the other himself. The Mi-go blocked the stairs, wings still clamped over its auditory sensory organs, but now facing the two men, talons out, hissing menacingly.

"Do it again, Will! Bring the roof down!" he winced. "Not something I ever thought I'd have to say in an English pub. Again. Nice man, John Lennon. Remind me to introduce you."

"And how can I do such a thing?" Will demanded.

"Use the sonic again!"

Will used his free hand to press the button again. The same noise pierced the air, and the Mi-go writhed in agony, pawing the ground.

"How?"

"Extend the sonic wave emitter for its maximum setting, press the button closest to the end, point and hold!"

Will shifted the weight of the terrified child to his other arm, using his free arm to hodl the device up above his head, pointed at the roof, slid a knob along its length and was rewarded by the tip of the sonic screwdriver extending. He pressed the button.

The creature positively screamed, and hurled itself at them.

And then the floor collapsed.

* * *

><p>Somewhere, a man jerks awake in a darkened room.<p>

The room was vast, circular, and vaulted. Tiers of galleries ringed the walls, ascending in an ever-tightening spiral towards the roof, tapering into a thin wooden spire. And looking up at this, the man in the hooded robes gasped for breath, eyes wide in horror. His fellows, cloaked in similar garb, stood passively, watching, expectant.

"He is here," the man gasped. "The dark one is here. The bringer of death."

One voice asked, "Does he know of the plan?"

Another voice said, "What matter if he does? He is but one man."

And another voice, possibly the same as the first, said, "But one man in the wrong and at the wrong time can make all the difference."

A voice asked, "Can he perish?"

A voice answered, "He is not immortal, but the threads of time are…confused. So many faces, but always one soul."

"But he is mortal."

"Is that enough? If he knows, then do others?"

"We must wait. Patience is a virtue, one we have perfected. We can wait."

"He has no need of waiting. He has all the time in the universe."

"But there are rules, ones which even he cannot break. He is the last of those who created and enforced them, and it is he who they affect most strongly."

"An agreement must be come to. Do we intervene? Or do we wait?"

"A vote will be taken."

No hands were raised. No lots were taken, no numbers were guessed. And yet the crowd had reached its consensus in only a few minutes. A unanimous consensus.

"We will wait, and observe further. More variables must be taken into account, ones which are not available."

The man in the centre of the crowd had remained silent through all of this, eyes still wide, staring unseeingly up at the spiralled tower above them. He stood as still as stone, his face as still as if it had been chiselled from rock. His eyes darted, as if watching events invisible to the others. His nostrils flared and his eyes widened and, almost under his breath, he whispered, "The mad Dalek seer, gibbering in the darkness…the war fought in time…Gallifrey falling…the cracks from the end of the universe…the chaos god's great prison…the fall of Arcadia…all of this has happened, and is happening, and will happen in days to come…"

* * *

><p>Will groaned as he opened his eyes, feeling a weight on his chest. For one panicked moment, he thought a wooden beam had pinned him. He shifted, and realised that it was the unconscious form of the child he had been holding. He checked the child, finding a few shallow cuts and bruises, but no major harm. Thank the lord.<p>

He sat up, slowly, his joints aching after the fall.

"What in the name of all the saints happened?"

"Sonic reverberations vibrating every nail in the floor simultaneously, weakening the structural integrity of the floor. Floorboards snap, we fell through, presto! Instant escape!"

The Doctor wasn't far, clambering over the wreckage, carrying the other child who was clutching him by his coat. He extended a hand which Will took, feeling himself hauled to his feet, child and all.

Will shook dust and wood chips from his hair, using his free hand to brush some off his shoulders. "I thought you asked me to collapse the roof?"

The Doctor shrugged. "I did. You were holding the sonic the wrong way."

"What? I thought the black end was the-"

"No, the extending crystal tip is the end. Honestly, it's as if you've never used a screwdriver before."

A shriek rang out from above, and the creature looked down through the hole at the two men, each carrying a child in their arms, looking back with a mix of surprise. Wordlessly, Will handed the sonic screwdriver to the Doctor, who equally wordlessly raised it, pointed at the creature, but silent.

The thing halted, and Will had the strange but unmistakable impression that it was glaring at them, even without eyes. And then it vanished with a flash of light, his eyes shutting out the glare, and opening to find it gone.

"Haha!" Will shouted, grinning in exultation. "Run and hide, demon! Back into hell!"

He turned, smiling at the Doctor, who did not share his joy. Instead, he was frowning in concern at the spot where the creature had been.

"Do you know something, Will?" he asked, meeting his glance. "I don't believe in coincidences. Not at my age. Good fortune's one thing, but this? I land in Tudor London, only to hear screaming and find an alien terrorising an English pub, then I run into you of all people, and _then_ I see the alien use a technology it can't possibly have. But do you know what the biggest coincidence of all is?"

Will frowned, suddenly concerned. "And what would that be?"

The Doctor's face broke out into a sudden grin. "One of these kids is called Falstaff! Imagine that! You might be holding a child named after one of your most beloved characters! Hah!"

Will chuckled, shaking his head in relief. "You are a constant paradox, Doctor. Serious one moment, joyous the next. It is little wonder she finds you intolerable."

The Doctor looked confused for a moment. "She? Who…oh, right, the Queen. I'm still not even sure what I did. Ah well, something to look forward to." He nodded toward the door. "Come on then! There's some anxious parents out there."

There was a collective gasp from the crowd outside as the two men they had let go to their death emerged, covered in soot and smoke still billowing out behind them. One of the women cried out, rushing forward and taking the child from the Doctor's arms with a cry of "Jamie!" and ecstatic sobs. He grinned, seeing mother reunited with son. The drunk wobbled forward, looking a little bemused but relieved, and ruffled his son's hair.

Shakespeare looked down at the young boy unconscious in his arms, concerned. He looked so young, seven years old…about the time Henry IV Part One had been first performed. He had made modifications, alterations, rewrites, as any playwright should, adjusting to the moods and attitudes of the audience to better the performance, but the character of Falstaff had been a constant…

Nine years old. Born when his son, Hamnet, had still…

He blinked smoke out of his eyes as another woman rushed forward, crying, and swept the boy out of his arms. He smiled. Three children alive and safe in the world because of the actions of him and the Doctor, and a monster banished from this world…

And as he thought that, the rest of the building simply imploded, sending out a cloud of smoke and dust. The last of the crowd dispersed in a frantic scramble to get out of the debris field, leaving only the Doctor and William Shakespeare staring at the still crumbling wreck that had once stood in that spot.

"Which setting did you put it onto, Will?" the Doctor asked, a little subdued.

"You said maximum."

"Right. Sorry, might have overdone it a bit." He shook his head. "Well, at least it's put the fire out."

The rubble shifted again as it settled, as though to punctuate the Doctor's sentence.

The Bard and the Doctor looked at each other, back at the rubble, back to each other. And simultaneously, they burst out laughing. They were so busy laughing that they didn't notice the _second_ creature take off into the night.

* * *

><p>True prophets are rare, and those who exist are not often known for their altruism or their clarity. The one who pulled a curtain away from her window, a single eye peering out into the sky as smoke continued to billow up in a slow trickle. It narrowed in fear, and the voice it belonged to muttered darkly to itself.<p>

"The lonely god wanders 'cross distant shores, and soon his travels will bring him to my door."

The curtains close again, the window returning to total darkness. Sometime later, the neighbouring household noticed that one of their brooms had gone missing. Their cat had also gone missing. They would have missed it, too – they had bought it to catch the rats – except that there were never any rats in this part of town. Never.

Even later that night, a few people, obviously drunks, or harlots, or mad, swore that they saw a figure on a broomstick flying through the night.


	5. Chapter 5: Centre Holding

The skies of London at this time have not yet been choked by the smoke and soot of a later age. The factories and mills that will churn out the airborne filth have not yet been built. But the city still has a distinctive smell of its own. People who imagine time travelling often forget that the past is not just a picture out of a history book – it is a living, breathing place, filled with plants and animals and people, and all the baggage that comes with that – the sound of people in the distance, talking and arguing; the smell of pre-industrial life, a time before plumbing, when the street gutters channelled more than rain. Even the river gave off its own smell, though not an unpleasant one – no sewers ran into it yet. In Eastcheap, a thin cloud of smoke rises from the ruins of what used to be the Merlin's Beard pub. By some miracle, despite every building around it being made of wood with straw thatch roofs, the fire had stubbornly refused to spread. A few city watchmen had coerced and bullied the small crowd that had lingered into a reluctant bucket chain to douse the few smouldering embers.

The people who live here are used to these smells, though a human time traveller from the future, a time of indoor plumbing and internal combustion exhaust, would have a hard time coping with the smell. The Doctor kept a few pegs in one of his cavernous pockets for just such a purpose, but he never used them himself. Countless worlds throughout the whole of time would desensitize anybody, and the Doctor preferred to experience _everything_ – it reminded him that these were real places, with real people and real histories. It was too easy to lose track of the fact.

Nevertheless, he was sorely tempted to reach for a peg as he coughed, ducking down below the layer of tobacco smoke carpeting the ceiling of the tavern. The air was thick with the smell of beers, wines and ales, breads, smoked meats and the people consuming them. Will grinned.

"You fare better than most first-time visitors to Lincoln's Inn. It takes its toll, does it not?"

The Doctor grimaced. "It'll…linger. Can we just sit down here?"

"I thought we could get a booth, Doctor. A little…privacy."

Apprehensively, the Doctor followed Shakespeare as they wove through the motley crowd that filled Lincoln's Inn; sailors, bricklayers, merchants and prostitutes, all talking, laughing, arguing and cheering as a small band of actors played out a pithy scene in the tavern courtyard. Up a set of stairs, onto a balcony seat, and the Doctor could finally clear his lungs, giving a final hacking cough as the two took a seat.

"I keep forgetting this is when tobacco starts getting popular," he said, by way of an explanation. "You should stay off it," he added. "It's bad for your health."

Shakespeare shrugged. "I keep to the opium myself. The usual, Nancy."

This last statement was to a serving girl who had approached the table behind the Doctor, who smiled and gave a curtsy, adding a sly wink to the Doctor, who returned it with a look of bemused incomprehension. He looked at Will, who chuckled.

"You have no eye for the ladies, Doctor?"

"Flirting later, Will. Now, what do you know about that thing?"

The smile faded quickly as Will's brows furrowed. "The demon that escaped? Nothing."

The Doctor raised a curious eyebrow. "Nothing else unusual happening lately? No ghosts or monsters or vampires or lights in the sky? This just came out of the blue?"

"As far as I know, yes, Doctor."

"Okay. So, get a timeframe. How long has it been since we last met?"

"You mean since you ran from the Queen from my theatre? Six months. The crowds are still demanding a repeat performance!"

The Doctor smiled. "Ah, give 'em a flashy light show and a bit of excitement, and you've got 'em in the palm of your hand. That's what people really go to a theatre for – a spectacle!"

"We make do. The other companies believe it was a royal performance, and who are we to deny it? You can't believe how much money we're taking in!"

"Oh, I think I can. And it's winter, so…late 1600, 1601? I'd say it's still 1601. What was your last play?"

Shakespeare simply nodded down at the actors in the courtyard. Over the softened background of the tavern business, the Doctor could hear the strains of "To be, or not to be: that is the question."

"Ah. I always loved that one. So it's been…twelve months, blimey, how does time fly? And between then and now, nothing…odd has happened?"

Shakespeare shrugged. "We fight wars in Ireland, Spain is always perched on the point of invasion, plague occasionally sweeps through the city, and there are still rumours of plots against Her Majesty. But this is daily life. Of true oddities that you might concern yourself of, I know not."

"So this is out of the blue. Right. Okay then."

"Is that not a good thing?"

"Oh, well, yes, of course it is. I mean, on the one hand, nobody's been killed yet, and the only thing destroyed is one pub-"

"The Lubber's Head will not be mourned, especially not by its neighbours, Puritans the lot of 'em," Shakespeare interjected.

"But on the other hand, it means we don't know anything about what they want, why they're here, and what they'll do. It's very inconvenient."

Shakespeare snorted in amusement. "I'd forgotten the strange ways you worked in, Doctor. Now, if you have no more questions for the moment, then might I ask some of my own?"

The Doctor frowned to himself – and then shrugged. "Oh, what the heck. You're in this far, might as well go all the way."

"I'll hold you to that, Doctor," Will said, winking. "Are you alone in London? Or is the good mistress Martha around here somewhere?"

The Doctor's face grew suddenly stony. "She…she went home."

"Why? The wonders of the worlds you must travel to, the times you could see-"

"Some things come at too high a cost," the Doctor said darkly. "And Martha paid for it."

"And you've been travelling alone?"

"Well…no, there was…somebody else."

Realising with a small amount of panic that this was a subject that he should not have broached, Shakespeare changed tack. "So what brings you to merry London town?"

The Doctor smiled wryly, appreciating the injected cheerfulness. "Well, I was just passing through the neighbourhood, and I thought, why not pay a visit?"

"You got lost, didn't you?"

"Yeah. I was aiming for Barcelona."

"Aim for Spain, land in England? Fortune smiles upon you."

The Doctor ignored the jibe. "Anything else you want to know?"

"For me, six months have passed. How long for you?"

"Three years," the Doctor said with an odd certainty. "'Round about. Give or take a few months. Or years. I have kind of a floating timeline, and honestly, you kind of lose track of dates between stopping the end of the worlds."

"For a Lord of Time, you seem unable to keep your dates in order. Your social calendar must be a mess."

"Well, I mean, it's not as if a calendar has any meaning any more," the Doctor said offhandedly. He paused. "Hang on, since when did you know I was a Time Lord?"

Shakespeare laughed. "Doctor, I'm a _writer._ I did my research! You are not as anonymous as you think yourself to be! Your stamp can be seen everywhere I look: Bosworth, Hastings, the Magna Carta, Greece, Rome, Venice-"

"Venice? I look forward to that one!"

"But in all my readings, I have never seen anything like these demons."

"Well, what's a Demon?" the Doctor said dismissively. "Just something scary you've never seen before! I've had plenty of people call _me_ a demon. Do I look demonic to you?"

Shakespeare carefully neglected to mention the strange clothes, wide eyes, mad grin and the vague scent of smoke that still hung about them. "Not in the least."

"There you go then! Some people call them the Fungi of Yuggoth, though technically they don't come from Yuggoth so it's a bit of a misnomer. They call _themselves_ the Mi-go – they're a fungal lifeform, very advanced, usually explorers and scientists. Not always the good kind, but they're not invaders. Which means that they have a problem, and that means _we_ have a problem, one that we need to deal with quick."

"But…it set fire to a pub!"

"Yep! Fungal lifeform, remember? Compared to its own world, this city is a freezer. Can you blame it? At least nobody died, and with a bit of luck its patrons will reform and live happy, fruitful lives!"

"Or go down the street to the Pike's Head."

"Oh, you have to be such a cynic."

"But why are these…Yuggothians…here in the first place? If our world is intolerable to them, why come?"

"I don't think they had any choice," the Doctor replied, steepling his fingers. "It said there were cracks, that its world was consumed by fire...maybe the cracks led here, to London, 1599. Well, they're hardly the first refugees you've taken in, are they? You've got Jews, French Huguenots, even Africans all living here, setting up shop, and living their lives. London's full of refugees, maybe it just wanted somewhere it could fit in?"

Shakespeare gave the Doctor a long look. "I think," he said at last, "that I am going to need some help on this one."

The Doctor spread his arms wide and grinned. "Ta-dah!"

"A little more than that, I think." He sighed. "Her Majesty must, of course, be informed of events."

The Doctor grimaced. "Do we have to? I'm quite attached to my neck. I like my neck! I need my neck! And besides, what are you going to say? A demon set fire to a pub? You'll be laughed out of the palace!"

Shakespeare shrugged. "Ay, perhaps. And the thing did fly away after."

"Maybe we could track it down? It's hard to laugh at a demon when it's in front of you. And I really want to know more about these cracks, whatever they are."

"A thing that flies may leave no footprints, Doctor. Have you a means to track such a timorous beast?"

The Doctor reached into one of his cavernous pockets, rummaging around, his hand coming out holding a triangular machine that even to Shakespeare's inexpert eye seemed cobbled together from strange, disparate alien machines, with a blinking blue light. Despite the privacy the balcony seat afforded them, the Time Lord still kept it out of sight of the regular patrons, leaning forward to lower his voice – as though talking of demons and time travel was any less conspicuous.

"Well, I might."

Shakespeare grinned. "Always full of surprises, Doctor."

He hurriedly placed the device back in the pocket, an echoing "clunk" reverberating from the coat, as the girl walked over, carrying a wooden tray of mead. Will smiled, palmed a few coins into her hand, and said, "So, we have a plan then! We track this creature to its lair, drag it before the Queen, and hunt down the rest of its kind before they can do more damage. Well met!" he said, lifting his mead in a toast.

"Hunt, yes," said the Doctor. "Kill? No. They're just lost, and trapped here – it's not their fault they're stuck here! If they're planning something, I'll stop them. But I've seen too many species wiped out just because another thought it was attacking them. Most of the time, it's the human race doing the wiping out."

"Surely we have a right to defend ourselves?" asked Will. "If these were Spaniards, would you have the same-"

"Wait, hang on a sec, "We"?" asked the Doctor. "Since when did Will Shakespeare become the voice of the government?"

Will glowered, and then sighed. "You might as well be told, then. I-"

The Doctor held up a hand. "No, no, no. This isn't happening. Next thing we'll be setting off together, bonding, sharing witty repartee. I don't need another companion. I can do this myself. Thanks for the help, Will, but I can take it from here."

Will frowned. "Alone?"

"Oh yes. I'm going to find the Mi-go. I'm going to find these cracks, and I am going to sort them out once and for all. And you know what?"

"What, pray tell?"

"That serving girl hasn't moved an inch since she came over."

The two of them looked – the girl was, indeed, standing stock still next to their table, so still that they hadn't noticed her. Staring straight ahead. And with a pair of silver metal objects attached to her ears, blue lights blinking.

The Doctor's face fell. "Oh no. Not this again."

There was a commotion beneath them, people suddenly milling about confused, interrupting the play in the courtyard. And then somebody screamed, and the crowd went from milling to running. They heard a low growl, and a shaggy form leapt onto the middle of the courtyard, scattering people as they scrambled out of its way. It lifted a metal head into the air, as though smelling, and swivelled its head around and up – focussing on the Doctor and Will.

"What in the name of the saints is that?" asked Will.

The Doctor drew his sonic screwdriver. "A Cybershade. And where there's Cybershades, there's-"

This was the point at which the wooden wall behind them splintered as a tall, armoured figure calmly tore its way through.

"Oh, this is so _not_ fair!" Protested the Doctor, outraged. "Mi-go and Cybermen in one day? All we need now are Daleks, just to make this a party!"

* * *

><p>Throughout all of time and space, three things are certain: death, taxes, and the fact that, on any given day, on any given planet, people of any given species will walk right past a tall blue box.<p>

The Doctor likes to think that it's because of a low-level perception filter generated by the TARDISs chameleon circuit, and it's true that TARDISs were designed for such abilities – he also conveniently forgets that the circuit hasn't worked properly for five hundred years. Occasionally, for a space between 1929 and 1994, it blends in perfectly in the city of Glasgow, leading to at least one curious and amusing incident involving a Glaswegian safe cracker, the Strathclyde Police force, and a Thunserian Fire Jackal. But really, when all is said and done, there is something to be said for good old human ignorance. Or it would be, if it only worked on humans.

Parked on the corner of Fleet Street and Chancery Lane, the TARDIS simply stood, tall and blue, as the assembled peoples of London thronged about it, not giving it a moment's notice. Merchants, bricklayers, carpenters, bakers, people going about their daily lives who had no time for an oddity like a blue wooden box on the corner of the street.

One man stopped, though. A hooded man, face obscured by deep shadow. And though nobody could see his eyes, and gave him a wide berth, he looked straight at the streetcorner – at the object that deflected the eyes of others, that seemed invisible and not.

Five minutes later, the people of London have a better reason not to see a blue police box.

This is a house. It is not especially unusual – like practically all structures in the world at this time, it is made of mostly wood, with a few iron nails. Inside it are various pieces of furniture, such as tables, chairs, and, perhaps a bit out of place, a hatstand by the door. Someone obviously lives in this house – the windows are open, the curtains shut. A few cured meats hand from the rafters, and the floor is covered in a large bearskin rug, perhaps recovered from the bear baiting rings nearby. A few tattered holes in the skin attest to this.

This is, however, one very unusual thing about this house. Well, two if you count the total absence of any kind of bed. Or the dim light that basks its interior without any visible source. Okay, three things.

The third is the person occupying it.

The light is not strong enough to banish the shadows, which seem to creep across the floor and walls of the house. But even they have enough sense not to approach the figure sitting in front of the hearth, gently stirring a pot with a long wooden spoon as it bubbles away. She – for the figure appears to be female – leans in close to the rising steam coming from the cauldron, and mutters to herself in a strange language.

The houses to either side of her are dark, their occupants having learned long ago not to interfere in her business. A band of Puritans strode through the street once, handing out pamphlets urging the people to repent of their wickedness and to reject Popish frippery. One brave soul ventured to knock upon her door. Nobody ever speaks of what happened next.

The vapour continues to rise, a pale, ghastly green, wafting up into the figure's nostrils as she continues to babble. She opens her eyes, and begins to cackle, long and hard. She has seen things in the smoke – the oncoming storm, who fought the horror king and won and lost so far off and so long ago; the word smith, to whom words and ideas are but playthings, a power her people have always respected; and the great monarch, sitting in her cage of stone and status, looking out upon her world. And above it all, she sees the nightmares to come, and the madness that shall follow in its wake, and she delights in her own madness for soon she shall be joined in it.

The neighbours rattle their windows softly, making damned sure they're completely shut, and draw the curtains tighter, fingers curled around lucky pendants, crosses, rabbits feet, and even, this late into the Reformation, a rosary. And still she cackles, because the witch Acrasia knows that nobody and nothing can stop its coming.

* * *

><p>Early evening in a rural English countryside. Not quite the same England as that inhabited by the Immortal Bard, but not so different as one would think – a few hundred kilometres to the north, and most of the old ways of life still remained, though the fashions and language might have changed a little.<p>

By this time, most people were already indoors, inside their homes or the local pub, to get away from the cold. There's be a frost in the morning, which wouldn't be good for the crops. So it is unsurprising that nobody was there to hear the strange, unearthly sound emanating from nowhere in particular. Though if they had, they would have described it as a rhythmic wheezing sound, or like the grinding of cogs. If they'd been asked to write it down, they would have written "vworp" a couple of times.

A blue box faded into existence, coming and going and coming again, as though fighting to materialise, and finally decided on concrete existence. The door opened inwards and a man stepped out of the door.

"Here we are! Barcelona! Soccer, wonderful beaches, the 2058 Olympic Games, and the meter bar! And if you're very lucky, I'll see if I can introduce you to Peter Mechain!"

He was different to the Doctor. Well, the _other_ Doctor. He was tall and skinny, they had that in common. And messy hair. They had that too. But this man wore a tweed jacket, a bright red bowtie, suspenders and, perched precariously atop his head, a red fez with a tassle. But nobody who had spent time around the two would ever dispute that he was _the_ Doctor – he had the same eyes, the eyes that either belonged to a young man with an old soul or to an old man with a young soul. The eyes of a Time Lord.

There was also the small matter of him having a TARDIS shaped like a police box, which also tends to rule out other identities.

A woman followed after him, grinning madly – a grin which faltered as she took in the sights. She was short, had dark black hair, and wore a look of weary amusement as she looked around and asked wryly,"Barcelona, right? Do they usually have fields where the beach is meant to be?"

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Come on, Pond, I can't have gotten it wrong this time! I tweaked the temporal differentiators, and totally replaced the special actuators _just_ so I could take you here! Those actuators cost an arm and a leg! Though not literally. Though that can sometimes happen."

There was the babble of words, too. They both had that in common. In fact, someone who knew both Doctors might not think they were as different as they seemed.

He paused, sniffed, stuck out his tongue, licked his finger and tested the wind, and said, "There! I know exactly where we are!"

"It's not Barcelona."

"No, it's Warwickshire," he said proudly. He processed his statement for a moment, running it back in his head. "Hang on, why are we in Warwickshire? This wasn't supposed to happen!"

Clara Oswald rolled her eyes. "Yeah Doctor, so you keep saying." But there was still a trace of amusement in her voice.

The Doctor frowned as they both headed toward the nearest fence. "I'll bet it was the actuators, I _knew_ they should have cost more. The next time I see that pudgy blue man he's going to regret selling me dodgy actuators!"

Clara patted him consolingly on the back. "There there, Doctor. Let's just pop into the village, check the date, and then get back to the TARDIS is nothing interesting happens around now."

The Doctor snorted. "Its rural England, Clara, hardly anything interesting happens here until World War II, and I don't thing you want to be there for that. Well, except for that incident with the Daemon. And the Buddhist monastery. And that quarry with the stone hand. And the lighthouse. Actually, never mind, we should check anyway. Just to be safe."

"Mm-hm," hummed Clara. "Just you remember, I don't want to be in Warwickshire for weeks, like that Fortinbras fiasco."

"I got you back in the end! And you did say you were bored!"

"Being kidnapped by a gang of invading Germans wasn't what I had in mind!"

"In my defence, it wasn't what I had in mind either!"

"No, you were trying to take me to Arcadia, and you got 'lost' along the way!"

"I'm never lost! I know exactly where I am at all times!"

"It's getting to where we want to go that's the trouble!"

And so it continued as they trudged into town. By this time, Clara had noticed the settling cold and started shivering. Still in full-blown self-defence mode, the Doctor whipped off his tweed jacket and settled it around her shoulders – and Clara, still complaining about the Doctor's driving skills (or lack of them) accepted it with a quick smile. It was a well-rehearsed action, and it spoke volumes to the nature of their relationship – if anyone had been there to see it.

In fact, there was someone there to see them pass by. Or, rather, something – a small floating sphere, hovering silently above the treeline. It tracked their movement, giving them a passing scan, quickly classifying them as of little interest – humans, or at least humanoids, in attire that suited a level-two planet such as this. It didn't bother with an active scan – non-humans wouldn't bother trying to blend in, it's programming reasoned, and their presence would be accompanied with loud noises and flashes of weapons. Instead, it moved gracefully across the countryside, ignored by the two people currently bickering as they headed into town.

Somewhere else, a man freezes in shock. And as he tracks the newcomers with eyes that are not in his head, he mutters to himself, "He comes, my Lord! He has brought it!"


	6. Chapter 6: And Behold, One Becomes Two

"YOU ARE IDENTIFIED. YOU ARE THE DOCTOR."

"Oh, very perceptive of you! Let's have a round of applause! You'll be passing the Turing Test in just a few millennia!"

Despite all probability, the Doctor didn't appear worried in the slightest. On the contrary, he had leaned back in his chair, set his shoes on the table, and folded his arms behind his head, calmly taking in the form of a seven-foot tall iron-clad monstrosity. Will, meanwhile, was too perplexed by the whole thing to speak for a moment. The maid, who was ticking a small box of recognition deep in the back of the Doctor's mind, stood stock-still.

"Is…is it a Knight?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing so noble, William me lad. It's a Cyberman. Deadliest species in this sector. And unless I miss my guess, they would very much like to speak to me."

"YOU ARE THE DOCTOR," the Cyberman grated again. "YOU WILL COME WITH US."

"Really? Will I now?" The Doctor rocked forward, glare suddenly razor sharp. "And what if I don't want to go?"

"THEN YOU WILL DIE."

He rolled his eyes. "Always with the killing. You lot never quite got the value of polite conversation – oh no, just crash through a wall and shout your demands, and then you're baffled when everyone runs around like headless chickens. Did it never occur to you to just ask?"

The pub was empty now, the patrons having all fled. The Cyberman remained, as did a pair of sentinel Cybermen at the doors, and on the ground floor a pair of Cybershades snarled madly as the Doctor's eyes swept across the weird scene.

"Firstly," he said, raising one finger on his hand contemplatively, "it's late-medieval, early renaissance London. No electricity, and only the barest minimum means of generating power. If you thought Victorian London was tough, just wait until you get settled in this time period. Except you have, haven't you – that's how you got here so quickly, and without drawing attention, because a bunch of tin soldiers kinda tends to draw attention.

"Secondly," as he raised another finger, "I happen to know for a fact that you lot should be stuck in the Void along with what's left of the Daleks – how are they by the way? Ah, never mind, I dare say they'll turn up in a bit demanding I go with them – and that you've only managed to escape because you're so desperate you don't care where or when you end up. If you'd landed on the moon, it wouldn't have mattered. Some poor astronaut would have found a buried chamber, and poof, there go the Cybermen across the universe again.

"And thirdly," he finished, raising a third finger and moving over to the serving maid, "you let the people go. Which means you're not interested in cyber-conversion. Yet. Which means you either don't have the capability, or it means you know what will happen if you do. And considering point A...sorry, point First…I'm willing to bet it's that. Which probably means," he said, daintily touching the device in the girl's ears, "that this little device…isn't permanent."

There was a faint popping sound, as the Doctor wrenched the cyber-equipment out of the girl's ears. The glazed, aimless look on her face was replaced by brief confusion and then, catching sight of the Cyberman and the strange man grinning ecstatically at her, she screamed, dropped her tray, and fled.

The Doctor harrumphed. "Not even so much as a thank you!"

"YOU WILL COME WITH US," the Cyberman repeated.

The Doctor glowered at the thing. "Oh yes. But not because you're threatening me, you understand? I come because something is deeply wrong, and it must be fixed, and I'm the one to do it. And," he added, "on one condition – my friend here gets to leave. No tricks, no subterfuge, no kidnapping or cybernetic implants – and believe me, I'll know."

Finally, Will roused from his stunned state. "No, Doctor. We're in this together, 'til the bitter end."

"Hopefully not all that bitter, Will," the Doctor joked.

"THE COMPANION WILL BE SPARED."

The Doctor blinked, suddenly flustered. "He's not my companion."

"Well I realise we've only met twice-"

"No, I don't do that anymore. Just me on my own."

"THEN HE IS OF MINIMAL VALUE," the Cyberman said, stepping forward threateningly.

"No! His timeline is a fixed point – interrupt it, and the whole of time will begin to unravel. And frankly, I think you're on a bit of a deadline."

There was a pause. "CHRONOMETRICS DETECT NO FIXED POINT."

The Doctor frowned, as Shakespeare looked a bit taken aback. "What, really?" He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, giving him a test buzz, and then examining the metal rod. "Not even a whiff of fixed-pointedness?" He blew out, shaking his head. "Blimey, this is turning out to be a day and a half."

"Doctor, what-"

"Go, Will. And, ah, give my regards to Bessy, will you?"

And with a clap of a metal fist against a hollow chest, and bright flash of light, the Doctor was gone leaving only a bewildered playwright.

* * *

><p>A TARDIS stands in the field.<p>

Unlike a specific earlier incarnation, there are no people thronging around it to ignore it. Maybe it feels grateful – nobody likes to be ignored. If someone put an ear to its exterior, besides possible splinters, they'd feel the faint throb and hum that was the heartbeat of the best ship in the universe.

Somebody did.

"Just like he said it would be," says one in a voice of excited awe. "Right where he said."

"The colour is a bit darker than he told us," says another.

"Is he gonna care if it's not the right shade of blue? Get the lorry."

"What, right now?"

"He said he wanted it right away. You wanna lose a shot at that gold, you're welcome to leave. Me, I'm saving up for a new tractor."

A few minutes later, a lorry trundled away across the field, carrying away the best ship in the universe.

* * *

><p>The Doctor pushed his 3D glasses up to their perch upon his nose, peering about him quizzically, smiling.<p>

"Nice ship. A bit dusty, but I expect Rosy's a bit busy. Oh, and can you feel that?" he knelt, palms pressed to the metal deck. "The harmonic resonance – ooh, you've got a bit of a problem in your plasma reactors. And…" he stuck his tongue out, wrinkling his nose, "…animal fat?"

The Cyberman tried to loom threateningly, but anyone trying it on any version of the Doctor was doomed to fail. "YOU WILL FOLLOW."

He bounded up like a spring, a grin plastered across his face. "Lead on, Allonz-y!"

The journey through the bowels of the cybership was a quiet one – the Cyberman had very little to say, and the Doctor walked in quiet contemplation. This wasn't his first time in a cybership, but it was the first time he'd been invited aboard one, without hostages being taken. It was a bit of a new experience, and he spent it drinking in all the details – the semi-tubular shape of the corridors, the arc of the struts that hung so low, its builders confident that its cybernetic crew would never bump their heads. The Doctor was not so lucky, and had to keep his head ducked after he struck a particular low-lying strut.

Finally, at the end of the long corridor, the Cyberman halted in front of a door, taking up a security position next to it. As it retracted into the ceiling, revealing a bustling command center, the thing rumbled, "YOU WILL ENTER."

"No fanfare?" he asked cheekily. He shrugged as the Cyberman raised an arm, pointing emphatically at the opening. "Alright, alright, I just thought I'd make a more dramatic entrance." He hopped across the threshold, onto the command deck.

The Cybermen froze.

It wasn't the freezing of paused time. He would have felt it if it was. The Cybermen just stopped what they were doing, standing stock still. The Doctor couldn't help noticing that there was a large, empty space in the middle of the room, where he was clearly expected to enter.

He warily prowled the edges, roaming among the automata.

"You wanted me?" he called out across the room. "Well, here I am!"

"INDEED," boomed a voice.

The Cybermen moved as one, turning to face the centre of the room and clasping a fist to their chestplates with a loud resonating clang, as a hologram wavered to life, projecting the image of a large Cyberman head, painted in black with a portion of transparent casing exposing the brain within it, looking down at him.

"Oh, very Wizard of Oz," the Doctor remarked amiably. "Shall I bring you the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West? A bit of a power drain, but when we're talking about animating giant cyborgs or putting on a spectacle, I know which one I'd go for. Oh, you must really be scared of little old me," he added, grinning nastily.

The machine ignored the jibe. "YOU HAVE BEEN SOUGHT, TIME LORD. YOU ARE REQUIRED."

"Oh no no no no," the Doctor said, shaking his head and drawing his sonic screwdriver. "First, I wanna know what you lot are doing here. Last time I saw you was in the Victorian era. Has that happened yet?"

"WE HAVE MADE ONE ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE THE VOID BEFORE. IT FAILED, AND THE CYBERKING WAS DESTROYED."

"Cyberking, right. So we're roughly synced up. Which means if I pressed this button," he said, resting his thumb on a bump on the screwdriver, "I could blow up your ship right now and end you lot forever. No more Cybermen, again. I could stop you from even starting the genocidal conquest I just know you're planning."

"BUT YOU WON'T."

"And you know that because..?"

"BECAUSE YOU ARE THE DOCTOR."

"If you're counting on my mercy, think again tinman, because I don't have any where you lot are concerned. Not anymore."

"EVEN IF IT KILLS YOU AS WELL?"

"I'm nine hundred and five. I think I've had a good run."

The Cyberleader paused, considering the Doctor's bluff. "NEVERTHELESS, YOU WILL NOT DESTROY US. NOT UNTIL WE HAVE EXPLAINED WHY WE HAVE SUMMONED YOU."

"True. I just wanted to let you know what I could do, to prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings. By the way, I'm already in your system-" there was an blare of klazons that quickly subsided. "-don't bother flushing the software out, I'll have plenty of time to do what I need to do."

"THEN WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER", the Cyberleader said in what the Doctor could only interpret was a sound of smug surety.

"Right, then if you lot have a comfy chair and a hot mug of cocoa, we can begin!"

To his surprise, a seat was produced – a wooden three-legged stool. The cocoa was not. He took the seat anyway, leaning back slightly, legs crossed, trying to look at relaxed as possible.

"So, what have you gone through all this trouble to ask me?"

"WE REQUIRE YOUR COOPERATION."

Yeah, I got that. What's really interesting is that you let my friend go. Not exactly your usual M.O. there.

"YOUR FILES WERE REVIEWED. COERCION WAS DEEMED…INEFFICIENT."

The Doctor smiled. "There may just be hope for you lot yet. And what did you want my cooperation with?"

"THE DESTRUCTION OF A MUTUAL ENEMY."

"Mutual? Oh, please don't tell me the Daleks really did follow you out."

"UNKNOWN. NO DALEK SIGNATURES DETECTED IN THIS LOCATION AND TIME."

"Well, that's a relief. So, who's this mutual enemy?"

"WE WERE WEAK WHEN WE ARRIVED. OUR SHIP WAS DAMAGED. OUR ENERGY RESERVES LOW. THEY OFFERED REPLENISHMENT IN EXCHANGE FOR OUT…SERVICES."

"Making a deal with a Cyberman? They're playing with fire."

"WE DID NOT KNOW THEIR IDENTITIES AT FIRST. WE ACCEPTED THE OFFER. IN EXCHANGE, THEY REQUESTED ACCESS TO OUR DATABANKS. TO OUR FILES ON TIME TRAVEL. TO OUR FILES ON YOU."

"Really? I'm flattered."

"EVENTUALLY THEIR DEMANDS BECAME MORE AGGRESSIVE. ASSISTANCE WITH CONSTRUCTION PROJECTS. EQUIPMENT FOR ESPIONAGE. WEAPONS. THE ENERGY THEY PROVIDED DIMINISHED WITH EACH REQUEST. WE NOW DEEM IT INEFFICIENT TO CONTINUE WITH OUR AGREEMENT AND THE DECISION HAS BEEN MADE TO TERMINATE IT."

"With extreme prejudice, I take it?"

"YOU WILL TRACK THEM DOWN, AND DESTROY THEM. IN EXCHANGE FOR WHICH WE WILL LEAVE THIS WORLD. WE HAVE THE MINIMUM REQUIRED ENERGY, BUT NONE TO SPARE. IF YOU STOP US, WE WILL NEED TO GAIN MORE. AND THE COLLATORAL DAMAGE TO THIS WORLD WILL BE SIGNIFICANT."

"Well, it's a nice offer, but I can't exactly wipe out a group I don't even know just because you don't like them. Why are they my enemy too? I mean, if it's genocide or enslavement of the planet, I'm your man, but if they're not up to anything I'm just not going to do it. What do they want?"

"WE DO NOT KNOW."

"Oh come on!" the Doctor said, derisively. "You're the best spies in the galaxy!"

"WE DO NOT KNOW. BUT A NAME WAS REVEALED TO US."

"And that was?"

"THE IMPOSSIBLE ARMY."

The Doctor sucked his teeth thoughtfully. "It's a bit hyperbolic, isn't it? Really? You know, as names go, I was expecting something a bit more…well, impressive."

"WE DO NOT KNOW IF IT IS THEIR NAME, ONLY THAT IT IS A PHRASE THAT IS IMPORTANT TO THEM."

"Well, that's a bit rubbish. All you've given me is a name and some vague hints. It's not much to work on, even for me!"

"THERE WAS ANOTHER NAME."

The Cybermen do not feel emotion, or at least, like the Daleks, claim not to with a surety that is very convincing. But as the Cyberleader paused, the Doctor thought he could detect an almost imperceptible shudder throughout the assembled Cybermen.

"NIGHTMARE CHILD."

The Doctor bolted upright, eyes wide and horrified. "What?!"

Not that name. It couldn't be. It really couldn't be!

"THE NAME IS FAMILIAR TO YOU?"

He stood, rigidly, staring in horror at the Cyberleader. "That's impossible. That's…that's just impossible!"

"WHAT IS THIS NIGHTMARE CHILD?"

"It's impossible, is what it is! What the hell do they want with it?!"

"UNKNOWN."

There was a pause as Time Lord and Cyberleader looked at each other, as if daring the other to blink first. Normally, trying it on a metal face would be a doomed venture. But "normal" was never a word anyone could apply to the Doctor.

"WE WILL PROVIDE YOU THE COORDINATES OF THEIR LAST CONFIRMED LOCATION," the Cyberleader intoned. "YOU WILL WITHDRAW FROM OUR SERVERS AND WE WILL LEAVE THIS WORLD. YOU ACCEPT THESE CONDITIONS?"

"And how do I know you won't go back on your word? You lot aren't known for honouring your agreements."

"WE HAVE SET THE SHIP ON A TIMED OUTBOUND COURSE. IF YOU WISH TO DEADLOCK THE CONTROLS TO ENSURE OUR COMPLIANCE, WE WILL ALLOW IT."

"That's awfully trusting of you."

"WE WILL HAVE TIME TO REORIENT AND PRIORITISE LATER."

The Doctor buzzed the screwdriver over the nearest control panel for a few seconds, and then pocketed it, satisfied.

"Done. We've got a deal."

"EXCELLENT," the Cyberleader said, reminding the Doctor of one he'd met so very long ago. "PREPARE FOR TRANSMAT."

"Wait!" said the Doctor. "Since I only have this chance to tie up a loose end, how did you escape from the Void? I took the Dalek device you used last time, and I'd know if there was a Void Ship anywhere here, so…what did you do?"

The Cyberleader looked a bit embarrassed, if that was possible. "WE DID NOTHING. WE ARE NOT HERE BY OUR CHOICE. THE CRACKS LED US HERE."

The Doctor frowned. "Cracks? What cracks, you mean like transdimensional drywall?"

"CRACKS IN THE SKIN OF THE UNIVERSE. WE DISCOVERED ONE. IT LED US HERE. "

"That's impossible," the Doctor said. "The Void exists outside of the universe, you'd need…you'd need a _tremendous_ amount of power to make one that could reach it. An _impossible_ amount of power."

He wondered briefly whether these were the same cracks the Mi-go had mentioned, a thought that was interrupted by being surrounded by pale light.

"PREPARE FOR TRANSMAT."

* * *

><p>That was then. This isn't quite now, but it is much closer.<p>

The Doctor sighed.

"Really, why does she keep doing this to me?"

As bright and chipper as he'd tried to be when they'd emerged, the Doctor's mood had clearly plummeted to thunderous levels, sheer irritation at not arriving where he'd wanted overshadowing the usual joy of somewhere new to explore. "Mr. Grumpy-Face" as Clara had once called him, though the name has brought an odd look on his face, and she'd never used it again.

"Who, you mean the TARDIS? Dropping you off where you don't want to be?" asked Clara, as the two of them continued to trudge along the dirt road.

"Yes! I have things to do, places to go, people to see, dictators to topple! I can't just go gallivanting across the middle of nowhere!"

"What happened to 'there's always something interesting in the countryside'?" she teased.

"I do my utmost to keep my friends' spirits up," he said dourly.

Clara shrugged. "I always assumed it was because she had a sense of humour." She smiled nastily. "And face it Doctor, anywhere you go gets interesting really fast."

"Ah," he retorted. "But there's a difference between the place being boring, and the things happening there being boring. Just because I'm being chased by Daleks or Zygons or Cybermen doesn't make it interesting, it just means I've got stuff to do and a lot of people are going to be very unhappy when I'm done, which means I have to hurry off without getting to have any fun. I wanted Barcelona! Any old time really, but I wanted beaches and sand and Spaniards!"

She looked around herself, at the green English countryside. Really, it looked to her for all the world like one of those sappy postcards you sometimes get from an aunt you never talk to but keeps remembering you exist and has taken it upon herself to remind you that she does too – green rolling fields boxed in my piled stone walls, the occasional tree, scattered scarecrows flapping in the breeze and an old tractor parked at the top of a hill.

"We're in the 20th century at least," she said, nodding at the machine. "Tractors are recent, right?"

The Doctor glanced over. "Chesterfield 1911. Designed by a lovely but confused man called Peter, put into production in 1849. Shame about the Lunar Wyverns, but at least you lot got an agricultural revolution out of it."

Clara decided not to ask.

"So, if we've landed here, there must be something here worth landing for, right?" she reasoned gamely. "The TARDIS never just dumps us in the middle of nowhere for no reason. Any idea what it could be?"

"How should I know? Maybe a race of mouse-people is poisoning all the cheese? Maybe the outdoor loos are all filled with portals to Jupiter? Maybe an army of scarecrows is swarming across the countryside? Actually, scratch that, I've already seen that. It wasn't pretty."

"Don't knock the countryside," Clara said, grinning. "If there's one thing Midsummer Murders has taught me, it's that it's a nest of secrets, scandals and murder, and that an amiable chap with a plucky assistant can work miracles."

The Doctor grunted. "It was okay. Season 86 got a bit salacious when the Americans took over, but it got good again by season 97 during the ITV buyback."

Clara laughed, and even the Doctor reluctantly smiled. And then he frowned.

"Now that shouldn't be there."

"What?" Clara squinted where the Doctor was looking, but he was already off, jogging up the grassy hillock. Clara took off after him.

The Doctor was crouched down, looking at…a fairy ring. At least, that was what Clara's parents had always told her they were - formed from when one mushroom released its spores, rings growing where they landed.

"You're not expecting fairies to show up, are you." She joked.

The Doctor tapped the sonic against his chin thoughtfully. "What do you know about the fairy rings, Clara?" he asked thoughtfully. "What do the stories you've heard say?"

"They're made when the fairies dance, I think. Or was it elves? dwarfs?"

"In the old stories there's not much difference," the Doctor said, suddenly serious and quiet. "And they didn't just dance. They would sing, and tell stories, and laugh and feast and sing, and sometimes a mortal just couldn't resist joining them. Sometimes you'd never see them again. Or sometimes they'd return to find the world had moved on, their friends and family were all dead, and he had nothing left." He extended the sonic screwdriver and buzzed it around the fairy ring. "Oh, those naughty elves."

Clara raised an eyebrow. "So…elves are real? You know…after everything I've seen with you, I shouldn't be surprised."

The Doctor straightened, shrugging. "Well, what is an elf, really? Just something strange you lot have never seen before. You wouldn't believe how many people have called me strange, can you believe that?" He frowned as Clara smirked. "Huh. You know those sentences that sound better in your head?"

"Yeah?"

"Just pretend it was one of them."

Clara knelt down beside the fairy ring, taking a look for herself. "So what's wrong with it? Okay, so elves exist. Does that mean they're coming back, or…"

"No. Maybe. Probably not. The problem isn't the elves. The problem," he said, pointing the sonic to a patch in front of her, "is this patch here. See anything unusual?"

Clara peered down at the grass. Bright green, with the rich brown earth showing underneath.

"A beetle?"

"No. The beetle's fine. The sun's behind you."

"So?"

"So where's your shadow?"

Okay. Clara had to admit, he was very good. She leaned forward, trying to find the spot where her shadow actually ended-

"Not too close Clara," he added in a tone of warning.

"So where is the-OOP!" She wobbled, her boots slipping in the morning dew, and she put out a hand to steady herself.

A hand that passed over the fairyring and brief disappeared before she toppled over completely.

"Well," she said, trying not to sound too surprised, "that was odd."

She stared at her hand, flexing it, making sure it was all there. Because while it had disappeared, it had felt…gone. No touch, no weight, as if it has stopped existing. The Doctor hurried over kneeling down next to her as he ran the sonic over the hand that had gone AWOL.

"You alright? All in one piece?"

"You know what, I'm starting to see what you mean about the TARDIS."

She picked herself up, dusting grass and dew off herself, and then yelped as a hand suddenly appeared from thin air.

It flailed around for a bit, as if someone had just stuck an arm out into something they couldn't see, and then expanded to include a wrist, and an arm…an arm wearing a blue and red pinstripe sleeve. The Doctor's eyes widened as the arm brought through a shoulder, and then a torso, and then an entire body. An extremely familiar body, with spiky hair, magnificent sideburns, and a look of utter stunned surprise as he took in the sight of the Doctor and Clara, who were likewise gobsmacked.

"You again!?"

The Doctor, Clara's Doctor, looked outraged. "What the dickens are you doing here?"

The other Doctor's shock gave way to disappointment. "Oh no. Not this again."

"Now who's crossing their own timestreams?" asked Clara's Doctor angrily. "You know the kind of anomalies this'll cause!"

"Look, I didn't ask to be here. One moment I'm in a Cybership, the next I'm standing in the middle of a field and I see a hand appear from thin air. What am I supposed to do, walk off like it's an ordinary day?"

"We don't have ordinary days," Clara's Doctor muttered.

"You're telling me!"

"Will you two give it a rest already?" Clara finally broke out. "Not even two minutes together and you're already bickering with yourself!"

The Doctors gave each other a Look, but stayed meekly quiet.

"Right," she said forcefully. "So, there's two of you again. What's wrong in the universe this time?"

The other Doctor gave his later version a brief eyebrow raise for permission, and received a subtle nod. "Well, I don't know what you two are up to, but I was catching up with Shakespeare when I stumbled on something about cracks in the skin of the universe, and something about an Impossible Army."

The older Doctor frowned. "Cracks? Did you say cracks?"

"Yeah. Powerful enough to destroy Yuggoth, and make a tunnel from the Void for the Cybermen. Oh! Speaking of which!"

He pulled out his small silver sonic screwdriver, and jabbed an arm back through the…whatever it was.

The Cybermen had offered to let the Doctor deadlock their navigational coordinates as a sign of good faith. And he had done so…but not before altering the coordinates, sending their ship straight into the sun.

As if the Doctor would ever allow them to leave.

"There, that should take care of them." He looked around at his older self and Clara. "And you two were…?"

He followed Clara's gaze, down to the ring of mushrooms that were now trampled underfoot.

"What, fairy rings?" he asked sceptically.

"_Yes_, fairy rings," insisted the older Doctor, a bit defensively. "We can't all be gallivanting around renaissance London attracting attention! Some of us prefer a bit of a subtler approach!"

"You found it a few minutes ago, didn't you?" he asked, giving Clara a wink. Her grin was answer enough.

"Excuse me," said the older Doctor, "but we were investigating a spatial anomaly." He peered closer at where his younger self had appeared. "Can you see any shadows there?" he asked.

Remembering he was still wearing his 3D glasses, the younger Doctor turned and squinted.

"Nope."

The older Doctor pulled out his own sonic screwdriver, and buzzed it at the anomaly. "How about now?"

The spot suddenly glowed and crackled, energy arcing around a point where space seemed to simply split in two, divided by a jagged crack that had appeared in thin air. The two Doctors circled it, but neither of them could see around it – it seemed to turn to face both of them simultaneously.

"This is impossible," muttered the older Doctor.

"I've been saying that a lot today," the younger Doctor said in exasperation.

"Doesn't stop it from being real," said Clara, smiling cheerfully.

"No," the older Doctor explained, "I mean I've already _fixed_ this problem. It should be staying fixed."

"Well, it wasn't fixed while I was still around, was it?" asked the younger Doctor. "Maybe it's an earlier version of the problem? Or maybe it's something unrelated? There was a breach at Canary Wharf, when the Void Ship battered its way through…"

"It still shouldn't be possible. I had to reboot the universe to fix it last time, I don't want to have to do it again." He shrugged at the younger Doctor's curiously raised eyebrow. "It was a bit wibbly wobbly-"

"-Timey wimey. I use a phrase once and you just pick it up and run with it, don't you?"

"Just…take it from me, it's a very bad sign."

"If you say so," he said. "Right, well, I've got to track down a shadowy organisation, so if you're all good here-"

"Wait. This organisation, they have something to do with this?" asked the older Doctor.

"So I've been told."

"Well then, why don't we use my TARDIS to analyse it further? I mean, it's either you hop back and find yours which could take days after you hitch a ride back to wherever you left it – and I'll tell you, travelling through a crack in time isn't my idea of a safe trip – or we could walk back to mine, which will only take-"

"A few hours," interjected Clara.

"Yes, okay, hours, but it's still shorter."

The younger looked dubious. "Neither of us should be here. You know the kind of risks we'd be taking just staying in the same timezone – the anomalies that could occur. We might end up with the Reapers popping back."

"Yeah," said his older self, "but I haven't seen those guys for about…oh…four hundred years now, and I've done a lot of fiddling with the universe that should have brought them out. I'm starting to think they all died off. And," he said, smiling confidently, "let's face it, when have we ever cared about the consequences if it means saving the world?"

The younger Doctor considered this, and then smiled broadly. "All right then. Lead on. Allonz-y!"

As the three of them set out, Clara resigned herself to being a third wheel on this unexpected tricycle as the two Doctors started bickering again.

"You need to get a catch phrase."

"Oh hark at Mr. Timey-Wimey!"

* * *

><p>The young man stares at his prize. Centred in the middle of a richly furnished room, the Blue Box almost seems to glow, beyond the light that shines out through the windows of the door. Beyond the dim glow of the candelabra that hangs above it.<p>

He puts out a hand, hesitating a moment just before he touches the wood panelling. Or, at least, what appears to be wood panelling. Appearances can so often be deceiving, as he has learned well.

"It's beautiful, my lord."

He turns to his assistant, a hooded man. If you didn't know who he was, you might mistake him for a monk. But there are no monasteries in these parts, and the One they serve is far more powerful than a mere god.

"It is indeed, doctor." He smiles at the title. A little touch of irony.

He slides his hand across the exterior, feeling the texture – the roughness of the wood, the smoothness of the glass, every corner and frame that he can reach. It's been a long time since…

"The farmhands who found it. They expect to be paid," the other said, as though merely the praise of his master was not reward enough.

The lord smiled. "Then they shall have it. Let them have fifty guineas. Each."

"A generous sum."

"Oh, not so generous. You will of course send the Hound after them later. He will retrieve the sum when he is…finished."

"Of course, my lord," the assistant said, backing out of the room, still bowing reverently.

Alone again, the young man strikes a finger around the keyhole. There is a dull clang, a flash of red light, and he snatches his hand away – but nothing happens. It was merely a noise to frighten him away, he things to himself. A toothless warning.

He knows of course that nobody can enter the best ship in the universe without The Key. Even trying is impossible, unless it specifically wants to let them in.

He rummages around in a pocket, and pulls out a small bit of metal that is already glowing with a brilliant yellow light.

It's a good thing, he thinks to himself, that he doesn't have to resort to such desperate measures.

* * *

><p>"You know, maybe going back for my TARDIS wasn't such a bad idea," said the younger Doctor, hands thrust into his coat pockets as his older self and Clara stared bemused at the empty field.<p>

"Are you sure we parked here?" Clara asks, belatedly.

"Yes," her Doctor said, offended at the idea that he'd got it wrong. "I am sure we parked here. Look, there's the wall we clambered over to get to the main road. And down there's the bush you caught your jacket on. A little further on, you'll notice the tree I nearly ran into. And over there-"

"Okay, okay," Clara said, raising her hands in defeat, "I get it. We parked here. So where did it go?"

He buzzed the patch of flattened grass where his ship used to be. "I don't know. I'm not detecting any outbound traces, and the artron signature is already hours old, what we arrived with. It didn't leave through the time vortex. And," he waved a hand over it, "it's not camouflaged."

"Oh, you got that working, did you?" asked his younger counterpart excitedly.

"Spoilers," the older version said grumpily. And then, in a grudgingly enthusiastic tone, "yeah, and it works a treat. Total camouflage, no texture pop or depth perception, total invisibility. It is pretty cool, if I do say so myself."

The Doctors smiled at each other, and then Clara brought them back to the present with an exclamation of, "I think I know how we can find it.

"And how might that be? Have you got a spare vortex manipulator handy? Oh, wait, hang on, that's still in the TARDIS."

Wordlessly, she smiled benignly and pointed to the ground a few meters away. Twin gauges in the muddy grass led from where the TARDIS had been, to a gate in the fence.

"Oh look. There appear to be tyre tracks in the mud here. I wonder wherever they shall lead?"

Her Doctor glared at her, annoyed. "Sarcasm is unbecoming in a young lady," he said crossly.

"Don't you listen to him Clara," said his younger self, grinning broadly. "That was a brilliant bit of deduction."

And as the three of them took off again, following the muddy trail, none of them noticed the small, silver drone emerge from behind the trees around the field, rotating to keep its camera lens focussed on them.

Somewhere else, some _when_ else, something stirred.

There was…sensation. Not quite touch, or smell, or sight, but something very akin to them, the feeling of existence, of _being_. The feeling of a nonexistence briefly shrugged off.

It reached out a finger. A homeless drunk screams in terror as a corpse rises up and murders him.

It flexes another finger. Somewhere else, an old man stirs, his dreams turning to thoughts of horrors a human mind would struggle to create on its own.

It strains against the chains that bind it fast, giving a roar that would shake worlds.

Nothing.

So small now, a tiny fraction of its former majesty. A scattered, sundered remnant.

But enough.

More than enough.

**A note to the reader**: as absurd or egotistical as it will sound, I was both overjoyed at and horrified by the 50th Anniversary Special. Overjoyed, because it was a fantastic episode, and Ten and Eleven had such brilliant chemistry with each other. And horrified because it was Eleven, Ten and a Time War Doctor confronting something significant they did during that, which also dealt with why Elizabeth was so angry at him. OH DEAR. Because really, that was precisely the setup of my original plan. So while I'm flattered that Moffat psychically lifted my idea and crafted a really good episode out of it, I was left in an uncomfortable position and tempted to just let this story die a quiet death.

But nope, I just couldn't do it.

I really cannot guarantee any kind of regular updating, but I would love to continue with this, especially in light of what we now know about some things. And while the original idea is the same, how I was planning on executing it was decidedly different, and I still hope it could make a good story on its own.


End file.
